But the weeks became months and the months gathered into years, and
after many years even the old professor himself forgot the incident save
at such times as the appearance of a man in uniform recalled it to him.
At such times he was wont to close his book--his long slim finger
marking the place--and let it fall upon his knee, whilst his mind
galloped back across the desert of the years to hover an instant about
the past's neglected grave.
Perhaps some ray of humor would creep in and part the clouds and the old
professor's smile would reflect the glint of sunshine deeper in his
heart. Then he would shake his head and sigh and open the book again,
following the lines as he read, with that long, slim forefinger.
"A dream--a dream," he would murmur and forget.
And for a long time the memories of the dead days would sleep in his
quiet mind.
He dwelt in peace in the midst of an active warring world; the peace
that is the man's who feels that he has done his part, his little share,
in making his world better. He knew his work was ended, that his time
for rest had come, and knowing this he was satisfied to creep
noiselessly and unnoticed into a dingy, unfrequented corner and there,
with a book or two, a ream of pure white paper and a pen, to spend the
time allowed him in the sweet society of his books.
Unhappy, you ask, this frail old man into whose thick hair the years had
sprinkled many snowflakes?
All about him there was none happier.
Had you asked _him_, he would have said, no doubt, with that pale little
smile of his:
"I have my books. I live well. I have my room. I have my bed. I have my
meals--and some of them I prepare myself. And I have a friend. Could a
man ask more? As I grow older I find myself agreeing more and more with
David Thoreau, who, you will remember, once said, as he passed a tool
box standing beside a railway, that he could not understand why a man
should want a better home than such a box would make."
And he would laugh with himself at the philosophic quip.
His friend in his later years was another old man; not a scholar, but a
man who had worked hard and lived hard, and at sunset took his rest. He
too, had many graces.
On Sunday afternoons whenever the weather would permit the old professor
sought him out and they walked afield, or by the river where the old
professor had loved to wander as a boy. If their path were barricaded by
a turnstile it always meant a lengthy parley as to whom should cross it
first.
"After you, my friend," the old professor would say, bowing low.